


Interior Decorating

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Default name MC, F/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: Yuki has some filthy new ideas, and Satan is taking suggestions.Lucifer should keep his study locked.
Relationships: Main Character/Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 220





	Interior Decorating

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER: PLEASE clean surfaces that you have gotten bodily fluids on. BE HYGIENIC**

The door to Lucifer's study is slightly ajar, which is unusual enough on its own. You press your hand against it and let it swing open on silent, well-oiled hinges. The room isn’t empty — which is no surprise — although the occupant gives you pause.

There are a pile of books lying on the walkways, cloth jackets scattered like droll, embossed confetti. The blonde demon standing between the piles plucks one at random and marries it to the book in his hand.

“You’re over-complicating things,” you say, impressed by the scale of the mess he’s making. His hand stutters in its movement before he puts the volume on the shelf. “Just fuck on his desk.”

Satan turns over with a scowl that softens into a frown when he sees your face. “You’re not Asmo.”

“If only,” you sigh.

He huffs a breath that would be a snort in anyone less dignified. “That would be a considerable downgrade.”

“I’ll choose to believe you’re paying me a compliment.”

“If you like.” He picks up another book, reaching out blindly for a cover. Something in dark green flies off the floor, floating into his waiting palm.

“Besides,” you continue, closing the door fully behind you. “Asmo is paradoxically the last one of you who’d purposefully antagonize Lucifer like that.”

He scans the shelves, trying to keep the title on the spine, at least, in its proper place. You glance at the mountain beside him curiously. “How did you get in here?”

“Lucifer was called suddenly to the Demon Lord’s castle,” he says, continuing his petty task. “He seemed flustered. The door wasn’t fully closed when he left.”

“How unlike him.”

“I wasn’t going to miss such a rare opportunity.”

You tap a finger on your chin, musing. “Are you sure this isn’t some trap?”

“If he had the foresight and the whimsy to unnecessarily provoke me like this, then he’s earned it.”

You can concede that point at least. You reach his desk and run a finger along the edge of the well-polished wood. It glows in the dim half-light.

“So.” You start. “How much does Lucifer like this desk?”

He actually looks down at you then. “Wait. Were you being serious?”

“You don’t think it would be funny? A desecration that he’d never find out about?”

He frowns. “What’s the point of doing it if he never finds out about it? Half the fun is imagining the look on his face.”

“Because I think his first order of business would be to remove the offending furniture. Imagine this instead: Lucifer continuing to do all his work on a desk he doesn’t know has been despoiled.” You pause dramatically. “ _Forever_.”

Satan stares at you for a long second.

“. . . You’re more devious than I gave you credit for.”

You dip into the sketch of a curtsy. “Thank you.”

“But we already know Asmo would never do it . . .”

“I assumed you’d want it to be you.”

He closes his eyes, brow furrowed. Like he’s actually giving your ridiculous suggestion some genuine thought. “It wouldn’t have enough impact if I did it alone.” Then he pauses, eyes you thoughtfully. You can see the second his mind makes the jump, the flush instant as he averts his gaze.

“Are you asking for a volunteer?” you ask. You mean it to be teasing but _possibility_ tightens the muscle at your core, makes heat pool low in your gut.

He’s turning it over in his mind, giving it due consideration. “I.” The blush returns. “Yes.”

“Really?” He’s surprised you. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Weren’t you?”

“I—”

He mistakes your confusion for hesitation, jumps into explanation like there’s a logic here that will make this decision clearer. As if carefully-thought out rationale is any match against the images already playing in your mind in vivid technicolour. “This is rare, I don’t know when I’ll be able to sneak in like this again. And even if I found another partner on such short notice, I don’t think they’d manage to make it here before Lucifer returns.”

“And you can’t exactly plan for it,” you say, playing along.

“Right!” He nods, pleased.

“Okay.”

He starts. “Okay?”

“Okay.” You edge onto the desk, settle casually against the surface. The wood is cool on the skin under your skirt. “I’ll be your partner.”

He turns to you, starting down the stairs. “I appreciate your cooperation, but do you know what you’re in for?”

“Not yet.” You smile guilelessly. “But you know I love to learn. Why don’t you show me?”

“I’m serious.” There’s a flash of a grimace on his face, something smoothed too fast for you to catalog. “I can be . . . rough. I don’t want you to agree to something you’re unprepared for.”

“Politics,” you say.

“What?”

“My safe word is ‘Politics’.”

He actually laughs a little. “Usually not a safe thing to talk about.”

He moves until he’s standing directly in front of you, hands bracing on either side of your thighs, palms flat. He leans down, head level with yours. His voice goes quiet. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I trust you,” you say. Reach a hand up and falter before his bangs. You curl your fingers inwards. “You’ve spent your whole life learning to control yourself.”

“I lost it with you once before.” He’s embarrassed by the admission, repentant. He doesn’t shift backwards, eyes watching for your reaction. You flex your fingers, push his bangs away from his face. “That’s true.”

You tug gently, bring him so close to your lips you could kiss him. Your words press nearly direct against his mouth. “But now I have insurance.”

He shoots upwards as you release your hand, back straightening like he has an iron spine and he’s been snapped against a magnet. He blinks at you, disoriented. “Did you just—”

“I think so!” You're delighted. “I wasn’t sure if it would work.”

He frames his chin on his purlicue, curiosity lighting in his face. “You didn’t say a word.”

“Well, having to speak every time would be a pretty big handicap. You didn’t know?”

His cheeks are pinking. “I’ve never held a pact before.” He clears his throat self-consciously. “I did research, of course. But most literature doesn’t state the strict communication criteria for a command.”

“Oooh,” you say, the edge of your grin going sharp. “Maybe there’s something _I_ can teach you too.”

And then you wind your hand around the back of his head and pull him in.

You’re too fast, he has to step back into your space to keep himself from stumbling. The kiss you press against his lips is a gentle contradiction to the force in your fingers, to the aggression of action as you spread your legs so he can step between them. Your thighs come up on either side of his, squeezing, but you don’t lock them around him.

“Is this okay?”

He huffs a laugh into your mouth “I’ll do my best to hold back with you, but _please_ don’t hold back with me.”

A shiver sets itself down your spine, you can feel it radiating down your shoulder, into your arms, your legs, your fingers. Are sure he can feel the echoes of it pressed against him. Well, if _that’s_ the way he feels . . .

You press both your palms against his cheeks, drag him down and _kiss_ him. Tongue and teeth and gasping desire. He cradles the back of your head with one hand, winds an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against his chest. You trace the contours of his face, run a finger against the dividing line of his jaw, down the muscles in his neck, below the edges of his jacket. You push back, let the fabric fall off his shoulders until it’s sliding to one elbow. Then you pull your arms between the two of you, creating space so you can reach down and snap the buckle on his belt.

He sets a soft kiss against your lips and steps away.

You hook your fingers into his belt loops, lock your ankles below his butt to keep him in place. “Where are you going?”

“To undress.” He cocks an eyebrow at you, fully removing his jacket. He folds it over the back of Lucifer’s chair and shunts it to the side. “I thought it would be easier if my arms were free.”

“I thought we were working on a clock?”

He hums, a finger plucking at the neckline of your shirt. “We are, but I believe the intent was to make a _mess_. It’ll be easier if our clothes aren’t casualties, too.”

“How considerate.” Your hands snap to the hem of your shirt and you pull, all one swift motion. You toss it off behind you, not watching where it lands.

Satan’s eyes go to the smooth skin of your stomach, watches the way your muscles contract. You hop easily off the desk and unzip your skirt, letting it pool to the floor at your feet. You kick, sending it off to some far corner. “Tick-tock, Satan.”

“If you’re careless you’re going to have a hard time getting dressed again,” he says, smiling.

“If you’re too slow, you won’t be able to get undressed at all.”

You step forwards, finger the wool of his sweater. Then you edge your hands beneath to the smooth planes of his torso, feel your way up to his chest, his shoulders, let the fabric gather over your arms as you lock them around his neck. He huffs amusement, face colouring. His arms come up, left grasping at the sleeve of his right, pulling until he’s slipped out of both sets of garments.

The second his face is visible again you’re kissing him, devouring. He takes you by the backs of your thighs and levers you back up onto the table, Lucifer’s blotter sliding along the surface. You break apart, his head bending towards your neck, breaths quick.

He plants a trail of kisses along your skin, each press hot and spreading. One hand reaches up, snaps at the hooks of your strapless bra and it falls somewhere between you, barely a brush of lace as it slides off your lap. You’re grasping at him, fumbling with the pull on his fly as you yank it down. Your fingers are too quick to be careful. You light a scratch against his skin as you seize his waistbands: pants and boxers both. And you **push**.

He takes a step back without releasing suction, one hand holding you in place at your waist. The other goes to his clothing, stepping out of the legs with surprising grace, his shoes already removed without your noticing.

“Things are starting to seem a little uneven now.” 

He caresses the skin just under the leg of your panties, starting from your hips and moving in. Your legs widen instinctively. “Satan . . .”

“I’m sure you’re very eager to make things _fair_.”

You wiggle, trailing a hand between your bodies to his rapidly hardening length. He pulses in your hand as your fingers wrap around him. A single, lazy stroke. “Why don’t we take turns?”

You slip off the edge, fluid. He moves back to make space for you and you take one of his hands, place your palm on his shoulder and lead him in a half-turn, the elegant beginnings of a dance. You shove at his chest and he falls into a seat, his bare ass landing on your warmed spot. You slam your hands on his thighs and lower yourself instantly to his stiffening, still-bouncing cock.

Your lips fasten just around his head, suction urgent as you taste the wet prelude of his arousal. He sucks in a sharp gasp, the muscles under your palms tensing as he arches. He’s stiffening beneath you, desperately trying to prevent himself form jerking up into your mouth. He doesn’t want to hurt you.

_How sweet._

But you’ll never hit your peak against such rigid restraint.

You hold him, sucking but not moving, laving your tongue incessantly against the underside of his glans. He hisses, a stream of angry air, and you look up at him from under lowered lashes. “ _Please_.” He bites out. “ _Move_.”

You release him with a loud _Pop!_ and he shudders. “ _Make me_.”

His eyes grow dark, dangerous but _enticed_. You shiver under the full force of his gaze. “I told you, I don’t—”

“Well _I_ don’t want to have sex with a statue,” you interrupt. You kiss the tip of his cock, feel it jerk against your lips and smirk. Then you trail your mouth upwards, along the planes of his stomach, his chest, landing at the delicate skin just below his ear. You scrape at his lobe with your teeth.

“How about this? If you’re starting to choke me to death, then I’ll scratch your legs. Nails and everything.”

There’s a long pause as he considers, weighs the capability of awareness against two vastly different spectrums of sensation. “. . . I can handle that.”

And then he fists a hand in your hair, jerks you off his skin and brings you to his mouth. His kiss is bruising, _breathtaking_ , and you flex your fingers against his thighs. You can feel fabric dampening between your legs.

You break apart and he relaxes his hold just enough for you to centre your lips back over him, flicking your tongue cheeky against the tip. The second your mouth fastens around the head he slams you down.

He stops halfway, lets you adjust to the feel, lets saliva slick down before he presses into you. He’s long, already hitting the back of your throat before you reach the base. You release one hand to wrap at the remaining length, pumping as he bobs you up and down.

He keeps a careful grip, controlling your pace, your depth, almost punishing. Tears are streaking down your cheeks as you take wet breaths, never fully removing him. You swallow as you bob up, holding tight to suction, your tongue pressing swirls against the sensitive skin. He moans as you work, little half-stuttering sounds that make you take him with increasing greed. The ache between your legs is nearly _throbbing_.

You trail your hand up his leg, drag below his balls, twist your wrist so you can cup them. They settle warm in the well of your palm. You massage, pausing alternately to rub your thumb at his perineum and he shudders and pulls your head back, _hard_.

Your eyes cross briefly as your vision adjusts, depth perception rearranging. You see the angry red line made by your fingernails as you frantically stripped him and pause. You rub at the agitated skin with your thumb. Then, “Sorry.” A kiss, pressed gentle against the mark.

His whole body trembles at the touch, you can feel the vibrations of it. He bows nearly in half, places his hands under your arms and draws you up.

You swipe at the spit on your chin with the back of one hand, smiling sweetly as you meet his gaze.

“Your turn.”

It’s almost a growl. He hooks his fingers into opposite sides at the waistband of your underwear, and instead of sliding them off he _tears_ them apart. Lace drops to the floor at your feet.

He pulls you forwards, grabs a knee and pops it on the desk so far behind his hip your sex is pressed slick against his chest. You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder, swing your other knee up on his other side and then he’s leaning back, propped up with one elbow, one arm threading through your legs and grabbing your ass, _squeezing_ , pressing you against his mouth.

His tongue is hot and insistent against your already dripping pussy. The skill is obvious despite his impatience; the gentle press of flat muscle against the full length of you, the quick, strong strokes inside. He litters kisses against you, circles against your clit like he’s _worshiping_.

You roll against his mouth. One hand comes up to his nape, cradles his neck, supporting. Your legs are shuddering unsteady beneath you, your quiet moans building to a shrill and breathy crescendo. You’re wavering on top of him and he curls backwards, lying flat backed against the desktop and pulling until you’re nearly sitting on his face.

He doesn’t stop even when you’re quaking above him, a Richter event that has the legs of the desk scratching against the floor. Your thighs clamp against his head, every muscle in your body spasming as pleasure licks up your core, shoots to every extremity and voids all thought from your mind.

“Satan!” You barely manage the words, more a whisper of breath than real exclamation. The sound of his own name draws him out, his expression smug. He sits up and you’re rolled unceremoniously backwards, sprawling in his lap.

He leans down and hooks his hands behind your shoulders, manhandling you until you’re seated properly upright. He’s still hard, pressed warm against your stomach.

“Was I too rough?” he asks, thumb swiping at your cheeks. Your face is a mess of tears and spit and probably the streaky dregs of your morning mascara. You rest your biceps against his shoulders and rock your hips against him. Your voice is rough. “My throat’s a little sore, but I feel _fantastic_.”

“Good.”

He reaches to the side, groping blindly until you hear the uneven scrape of a drawer pulling open. He pulls out something red, pressed and monogrammed. One of Lucifer’s handkerchiefs. The soft swipe of impossibly luxurious cloth has you closing your eyes as he dabs at your face. “Is that better?”

“That depends,” you say, still making small circles with your pelvis. He blinks, trying to focus on his task. “Did you get all the makeup running down my face?”

“Nothing was running down your face,” he says, and you eye him dubiously. You can see a black streak against the deep red. You reach a hand up and wipe directly below your lash line and your fingers come away clean.

“Well,” he amends, balling up the handkerchief, “not anymore.”

“Thanks.” You hitch forwards. He tosses the scrap, hands coming to the dip in your hips, fingers pressing tight. Holding you still.

“Do you need a minute?” he asks. His voice is remarkably controlled but you can see the cracks, the bobbing of his throat as he swallows thickly.

“Just the one.” You trail your fingers lightly over his chest, feel him twitch against you. He drags you barely a hair’s breadth closer.

You shift up and he releases you immediately, fingers unlatching from your side. A hum floats from your throat unbidden at his eager consideration. You only press closer, carefully positioning him so you can slide him in _slowly_.

You gasp at the fullness, the _depth_. He’s reaching spots inside of you you barely remember having and you let your breath out slowly as you sink to the base. You can see his fingers flexing where he’s placed them on the table.

“Alright,” you say, getting your legs beneath you, “let’s call that a minute.”

And then you’re bouncing on his lap, the desk shaking beneath you and you think deliriously that it might actually _break_ and then he’s got his hands under you, lifting you, your centre of gravity shifting as your muscles lose their anchor. You can see him, jaw tight, teeth gritting, and you wonder for a moment if you started back in too rough when he slips off the desk altogether.

“Clearly I’ve been much too careful with you.” He pushes the words out through tight lips, but you can see a smile in his eyes.

You reach up, lock your arms around his neck and tug gently at his hair. “Well, as long as you’re willing to learn from your mistakes.”

“You know me,” he says, rising to the bait. His eyes are almost shining. “I’m a very avid student.”

And then he turns, sets you backwards on the desk, hovers over you with his elbows caging your head. You draw him closer, press an urgent kiss against his lips. “Satan. _Take me_.”

You let out a stuttering gasp as he moves immediately, feel the full drag of him a journey as he arcs his hips away. He slams into you with hungry urgency and you can’t stop the sudden burst of profanity as it explodes from your throat. “ _Fuck!_ ”

The snap of flesh against your thighs stings; a brief and sudden pain. There’s something like a growl growing in his chest, something half-complete, tempered down. His eyes are bright, _burning_ , devouring every twist of your expression.

You reach for him, hands in hair, drag him down so you can taste his fervour. His hips are pistoning with nearly mechanical precision and it occurs to you, dimly, that you didn’t think petty revenge pranks would be the way into this demon’s pants, (although now that you’re here you can’t find you’re particularly surprised). You break for air and he nearly follows, gaze heated and direct. He’s looking at _you_.

He’s looking at you like he doesn’t see anything else, doesn’t remember where you are, and even if that’s only the blanket suffocation of pleasure the suggestion alone is heady.

You don’t bother to contain your voice, just let him have your noises freely. (Or at the very least release them after more than ample payment). Moaning and gasping, half-words blabbered incessantly as he hits that _spot_ , deep inside of you.

His spine uncurls. He grabs you by the hips and his pace goes harder, still measured in perfect double-time. Strands of hair are slicking against his skin, burnished gold dangling over his eyes. You prop an elbow on the table, follow him up so you can watch every nuanced change flash in his face, moan as the movement changes the angle of his thrusts. Your fingers card his bangs back into his crown.

He meets your gaze and the green of his irises are lightning. You can feel a spiral of energy pushing through you, arousal conducted like flames on fuel, meeting something dark and burning in him. Fire meeting fire — a blaze that burns a different colour that still manages to feed your own.

“Satan,” you whimper, and it sounds like a prayer.

There’s a flash; a puff of ash and the scent of burning, the barest hint of phosphorus. You press yourself closer against him, body seamed, your hands finding something thick and dry as bone protruding from beneath his hair.

Your eyes pop open.

His horns are impressive from a distance, but so close you can see the nearly lacquered shine of them, the true, deep, blackness. Your heart stutters in your chest, every muscle freezing cold. The last time you saw them . . .

“Politics.”

The word is a gasp but he stills immediately, hands pulling off your body. Cool air brushes against the wells of heat he’s pressed into you with his palms. He posts his arms on the desk instead, the fever of his skin causing silhouettes of condensation. He’s trying to pull out, a laborious, agonizing _drag_ inside of you and it feels different, you feel stretched and _fuller_ and—

You’re panting, each _tiny_ millimeter making you impossibly aware of your body. You throw your legs around his hips, lock your ankles to keep him in place. One of your hands holds at the base of his horn, and he tries to swallow a groan between tightly-pressed lips. Your snap your head up, catch sight of his expression. His skin is flushed, jaw tense, eyes heavy-lidded, but. 

Clear.

He sees you. He’s in full control.

“Stop moving,” you say, without any of the authority of a command. He freezes, still as marble.

“You used your safe word.”

“I. I wanted . . .”

“Not our pact?”

You consider him, let your eyes rake over his face. “It was a test.”

It feels like a manipulative thing to admit, but he only furrows his brow and waits.

“I wanted to make sure that you were still fully in control.”

“That was . . . smart.” His hands flutter on the wood, and you watch, mildly smug at your effect. You clench experimentally around him and he _shudders_ , drops his head to your shoulder and groans, low.

“You feel different.”

“I. Yes, I guess I would. I’m sure you noticed some things . . . _change_ with our transformations.”

“Well,” you say, running one hand along the curve of his horn, out towards the tip. “I can’t think of anything specific . . .”

He shakes you off, but you can feel him thrumming inside of you, the barest twitch, a desperate bid for friction. “Don’t be smart.”

“You love it when I’m smart,” you retort. You let your hand fall to his hip, press a thumb into the deep v of his pelvis. “At least you didn’t readjust your wardrobe.”

“The transformation is guided by intention. And I had no intention of any interruptions.”

“Then what _was_ your intention?”

He stares down at you, impressively cool despite the colour still splashed across his cheeks. “I wanted _more._ ”

“More? More what?”

“More of _you_.”

The words are so assured, so perfectly sincere you can feel yourself tightening around him. He takes in a sharp breath and you can see the spasm of his biceps as he fights to keep his hands on the table. “Most physical changes to our bodies aren’t as noticeable under our clothes.” A deep, slow breath. “But in heightened states: excitement or . . . _arousal_ , for instance, our physiology adapts to . . . best effect.”

“So,” you say, almost casually, “if you were to . . . pull out of me, right now. Would I be able to see a difference?”

He licks his lips, gaze boring into you. “It would be conspicuous.”

“Hm. In that case I think I’ll need a moment to adjust.”

He raises a brow. “This wasn’t a moment?”

“Not as . . . stimulating as I need.” You arch upwards and kiss him, press wet against his lips until he relaxes back into you, teases you open with his tongue and licks the roof of your mouth. You can almost feel it, the coil of his muscles as he forces control, and you mumble your words against him. “ _Touch me_.”

His hands shoot to your waist, grasp at the skin there, travel up your sides until they hit the undersides of your breasts. He cups them, kneads, fingers circling the sensitive buds of your nipples. You mewl, wriggle against his touch, feel the scope of him inside of you, the changing friction. He gasps out, loud. A shuddered supplication.

He dips down, latches around one nipple and _oh_ , he must apply himself as academically to pleasure as anything else because you’re _writhing_ underneath him, bucking against his hips and you can _feel_ him, the slightest cant of his pelvis before he tamps the instinct down. His newly freed hand goes to the intersection of your bodies, rubs lightly at your clit and you _jerk_ , grab the full curve of his ass with both hands and _slam_ him with arms and legs against you.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him swear and it is _delicious_. The unwinding of his composure, vocabulary expanding in deviant directions. He’s paused, shivering, and you wet your lips at the debauched _state_ of him.

“Fuck me.”

His head whips up, searching. Then he leans forwards and _kisses_ you, and _fuck_ that only serves to push him deeper, your entire world dissolving into heat and touch and the sweet, aching _fullness_ of him inside.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, _breathes_ against your cheek. “I _promise_.”

You press your hand against his chest, feel the beat of his heart under your palm, the strength of it solid as conviction. You believe him.

You turn your face, almost nuzzling against his skin. He’s steady warmth beside you. Your words are shaky on the exhale, direct into his ear. “ _Do it_.”

The sound that warbles out of your mouth is the same shade as a scream, a half-volume of warbling, keening whines that dissolve into gasping sobs. He’s pressing in and out of you, moving in a measured rhythm that’s approaching frantic. It’s an agonizing path, the gorgeous slide of friction growing slicker and slicker as he maps you from the inside out.

You clutch at him, hands scrabbling at his back, nails out, almost scratching. He slows at the first sharp nick and you chase him desperately, beg and threaten in equal measure to keep him going, moving, fast and fast and _faster_. You can hear a terrible screeching, feel the world shifting underneath you. The desk is scraping along the floor and Satan removes a hand, **slams** it down against the wood and the whole thing jerks before settling stiffly into place.

You angle your hips slightly, move until your clit can share the pressure of his movements. Every drag, every jolt has pleasure bearing down on you and then you’re shaking, vision going white as ecstasy washes over you in cascading waves. 

You’re panting, words lost as your legs shudder against the desk, moisture pooled beneath you. Satan stops his motion, still erect inside you. He glances, deeply satisfied, at the mess of your arousal on the table.

You close your eyes, attempt to drop bonelessly to the desk but he catches you, holds you close against his chest as you try to calm your heartbeat. You’re still so sensitive, the aftershocks twitching against him. His cock trembles and you press a kiss wet against his collarbone.

When your world has steadied you sit up, trace the red you’ve forced into his skin. Fingertips follow the lines with a gentle touch, and he makes a strange, contented sound. You watch as his lashes flutter against each motion, lean down and press a kiss to every mark that you can reach. He sighs, brings you slightly closer and lights a kiss against the shell of your ear.

“Satan- _Oh!_ ”

You’re shocked by the feel of something dry and segmented brushing against bare skin. Violent green shows bright against your hip and you reach for it, brush the tip of his tail with your fingers. He doesn’t pull away, so you cover it lightly with your palm, rub down against the length of it, green turning black. He _shakes_ above you, breath catching. When you look up his pupils are blown wide.

“That.” He takes a breath. “Do that again.”

You lean back so you can watch him properly, circle one hand around him and trace upwards. The growl is back in his throat; aggressive but not dangerous, setting a beat deep below your breast. You keep going, keep your skin against his tail as you move and it flexes around your arm, wrapping loosely. You reach the base of it, press your thumb at the indent of his spine and he arches at your touch.

He’s flush against your chest. You tilt your head at the first puff of breath, offering, and he latches at your neck. You’re heating up again, more aware of the press of him, every centimeter static mapping on your skin. You tug your arm and his tail jerks, groan sudden and loud.

He pulls fully out of you and you gasp. Your arm is raised, spun, as his tail goes over his head and suddenly you’re facing the desk, his cock wet against your ass.

He bends you over, sweat-slicked skin pressed against the surface, the blotter sticking, almost vacuum sealed to your stomach. Your arm is twisted behind you, held low against your back. His hands reach, _squeeze_ the tops of your thighs and he’s lifting you just enough to slide back into your aching warmth and then—

He’s doubled over on top of you, reaching, palm to the back of your unencumbered hand. He threads his fingers through yours and you hold fast. There is almost no point where you can’t feel him fixed against you, the careful weight of him a fever to your heated body. And then he starts to _move_.

“ _Fuck_.”

It’s the second time you’ve heard him swear, and both within an hour. The impropriety of his speech does _something_ to you, makes you feel something inside yourself untether in a precarious way. You mewl under him, jerking your hips, desperate to find his pelvis.

“You feel _amazing_ inside me,” you start, and he stutters in his pace, nips at your shoulder with the barest scrape of teeth. You can feel his tail winding tighter around your forearm. “You’re going so _deep_ I can’t—”

Your voice cuts off with a cry as he snaps harder against you, the front of your thighs slamming against the edge of the desk hard enough to bruise. “Fuck, you feel . . . ,” he gasps, voice dying.

You can feel your muscles tensing, your lexicon dropping to a handful of words. “ _Satan._ ”

He squeezes your hand, tight, as he pounds into you, every time you whimper his name bringing him to nearly weighted against your back.

“What do you need?” he growls, voice raw.

“What?”

“What do you _fucking_ need?” His hips are still moving, cock pressing into you deep and even. His free hand is still cupping the front of your sex, thumb working a gentle pressure that’s ramping slowly to frenzied. He’s chasing _your_ release.

“You’re — ah — making it harddd to. Think.” 

“I’ll give you _anything_. Just fucking _tell_ me.”

You shudder, feel the potential of that oath from his filthy fucking mouth. You stretch your arm up, force him flush against your back, his tail still wrapped, trapped between the two of you.

“Just keep talking to me,” you manage between gasps. “Just like that.”

“What did you like?” he asks, lips direct against your skin. “How much I want to pleasure you? Have you shaking underneath me?”

You shift backwards, roll your hips once he’s sheathed full inside you.

“ _Fuck._ ” It’s the barest whisper of his breath but you clench immediately and he fastens his mouth at your neck, sucks briefly. “ _Oh._ How interesting.”

He cants back into you, pelvis, thumb, mouth all working insistently. Every aspect of his focus is on you, driving you with single-minded determination. You can feel the pricks of mind-numbing sensation building in a steady rise.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he repeats, his voice rough but sweet, “ _you’re making me lose all my words._ ”

Every nerve sings at once, a fission of pleasure that has your legs jerking hard against the edge without feeling the damage of the motion. You’re flooding, squirting in fits and starts enough to puddle on the floor, incoherently sobbing bastardized fragments of his name.

He moans, once, a sound that’s pleading, cut-off. “Fuck, damnit, _fuck!_ ” You can feel the muscles of his stomach convulsing behind you, hear the measured, shaky breaths as he struggles to bring his arousal just barely to control. His tail burns friction as it unwinds from around your forearm.

He pulls you back up, one arm pressing close, _so close_ against your throat. You take a shallow breath, clenching at the pressure. He hisses against your ear. 

His tail stutters as it sweeps across the desk, clearing the surface, with barely the piece of mind to magically cushion the objects before the more breakable of them shatter on the floor.

He slides roughly out of you, spins you to face him and grabs you _hard_ , fingers digging into flesh. He hikes your legs and you fall back, elbows bracing against the wood as he drags you ninety degrees, your body lying the whole length of the table. He drops over you as he sheaths himself back inside, words growling tinder. “I want you _all over_ this desk. I want you pressed into every whorl and grain and _centimeter_ of it.”

You gasp, arc your legs up and curling around his hips, locking just over the base of his tail. You’re still so _sensitive_. Head reeling, you let the poetry of his words take you back to an impossibly quick high. He shakes as you flex, bring him closer, _deeper_.

He’s normally so reticent, but your eager appetite, your enthusiastic response has every thought spilling out of him, unbroken, from his lips. “I want your sounds and your sweat and the _dangerously_ sweet feeling of you ingrained here like a memory. I don’t even want to _think_ about this place without remembering the way you feel clenching around me.”

You can’t remember ever having come from penetration alone, but there is a familiar pressure building like a promise. He breaks off your sloppy kiss, mouth wet and bruised, and everything narrows down to the pinpoint of bright green in his eyes. You can feel something sparking, spiraling, flames chasing smoke past the boundary of the sky.

There’s a strange release building, a fraught relief that has him shuddering inside you. A lovely, sated, bliss. Your breath brushes across his cheek, your voice strangled with pleasure and exertion as you ride your fourth orgasm of the night . Your hips are jerking, pussy leaking, _wet_ , and you can feel yourself transitioning from solid to pliant.

He’s wild within you now, the delayed crest of his satisfaction taking him rough through your waning eddies. You reach up, cup his cheek in your hand. Your voice is coarse when you press your words against his throat. “I want to _steal_ this place. I want to mark it so thoroughly it can only ever be _ours_.”

And then he’s shaking, pulsing inside you, and every point of contact disappears as he jerks out, the rush of air freezing. His cock is in his hand and it’s one pump, two, and you barely have time to wiggle out of the way as his release comes shooting in a barely controlled stroke, a litany of swear words spilling from his lips. It’s stark against the deep wood of the desk, a short line of it painted on your chest from your inability to slide fully off in time.

Your laugh is unsteady as you swipe at yourself with one finger. “Sorry. I tried to give you more surface area.”

“I appreciate the effort.” He’s unmoving in front of you, softening cock held in a loose grasp. He watches as you bring the digit to your lips, _tatste_ it, salty and pungent. You reach back down to gather the remainder off your breast. Pause with your tongue already straining for another swallow before turning and smacking the cum down on the surface.

“Thank you.” He coughs lightly. Remembers himself and lets go, horns and tail disappearing.

You cock an eyebrow at him, laughing. “What? Thanks for the sex, you mean?”

He flushes and looks away. “Well, thank you for that too. But I mean thank you for doing this with me.” He glances up and his eyes are bright. “Thank you for trusting me.”

The storm of pleasure inside has settled, but his words start ripples of something in your chest, warm. “Of course.”

“I’m glad it was you.”

“Because I had such delightful ideas?” you ask, teasing.

“No.” He pauses, tilts his head. “I’m glad it was you for everything. Every part of it.”

Your breath catches at this admission: simple and somehow uncharacteristically honest. You walk over, flatten your palm against his chest and tip upwards. Your lips press, light, against the still-damp skin of his cheek. “I’m glad it was you, too.”

His open palm brushes against your waist and for a moment you think he’s going to hold you. There’s the outline of a squeeze and then he’s walking away, bending down to pick up the pants he’s discarded on the floor. You’re treated to the delightful roundness of his ass, his sweet pink sheen—

He’s pulling up the fly of his pants when he turns to look at you over his shoulder, still fully naked but for your shoes. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

He tosses you your skirt and you catch it in one hand, stare with marked disappointment at the scraps of lace beside him that used to be your underwear as you fasten it over your hips. He doesn’t notice, already grabbing at his shirt and sweater.

You frown, bend conspicuously at the waist to pick up your bra. You can feel his gaze on you as your skirt rides up. Even once you’re standing, fastening the cups around your chest, his eyes are still trained on the slick mess you’ve made between your thighs.

“Be careful going back to your room.”

“I won’t be able to leave at all if I can’t find my shirt.”

His expression is decidedly unimpressed as he walks to the corner where a crumpled green cloth has been discarded. He brushes the dust off carefully before returning, handing it into your care. He very consciously doesn’t say ‘I told you so’.

“Thank you.”

You struggle into the arms, button it once before realizing the wrinkles have set the band out of alignment and start again. He rolls the chair back to its proper place, jacket still draped over the back. “Sit.”

You cock an eyebrow at him. “You’re so desperate for me to dirty this too?”

But you back obediently into it, watching curiously as he kneels in front of you. A warm hand pushes your thighs slowly apart and you feel the briefest stirrings of a breeze and wonder if he really thinks he can unravel you five times in a row. Green eyes meet yours and you feel your stomach go concave and then—

A creased red handkerchief passes slowly over the inner skin, dabbing gently at all the excess moisture.

“A little less bait for the wolves.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile is a little too pleased. “Why thank you, Prince Charming.”

The satire backfires entirely when he takes a thigh in one hand and presses a kiss to the inside and you feel the briefest flick of his tongue, trapping you in a stare that borders on challenging. You hold your breath so he can’t hear the way it stutters.

Then he pats you on the knee, pulls you to standing. Turns to the desktop and the objects littered over the floor with an appreciative look.

He fishes into his jacket pocket, pulls out his D.D.D. and snaps a picture. Then he gathers everything in his arms and makes as if to leave. You feel the startled edge of betrayal.

“We can’t leave it like this! I thought the point was for him not to know?”

He shrugs, smiling deviously at the splatter. “I rather like the composition of it though. Almost abstract.”

“Fine, as long as you leave me out of it. I don’t think I’ll survive if Lucifer finds out I played any part in this,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

He sobers at that, turning to you with a long, lingering look. Something sparks in his eyes, not quite concerned but a close cousin to it. Almost. Almost . . . _protective_.

“You’re right.” He sighs with no small amount of disappointment. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing sweat-slicked bangs off his forehead. “You can go ahead, I’ll clean up here.”

“Are you sure? I can help.”

He half-smiles, eyes turning barely at the corners. _Amused_. “So you don’t trust me after all.”

“Maybe I don’t.” You huff at him. “I guess it’s ultimately your choice. Just don’t incriminate me in the fallout.”

He tilts his head at you, eyes closed. A perfectly serene picture, a smile you’ve seen a million times before. “I promise.”

When you reach down, make to grab for the decimated remains of your undergarments, he stops your hand.

“Leave it. I said I would clean up and I meant it.”

From this position you can see all the objects that have been pushed off his desk; blotter, vase, decanter of something dark amber. A scant handful of expensive looking stationery and supplies. It’s more than you realized.

“Are you sure you don’t want help?”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I remember where everything goes. Do you?”

You purse your lips, argument void. “Then. Thank you. I leave this in your very capable hands.”

“Of course.”

You stand, walk briskly towards the door and try to ignore the feeling of your skirt brushing against noticeably bare skin. When you turn at the threshold to take a glance over your shoulder, you see him tuck something like lace into the pockets of his pants.

* * *

“Thank you, this is most helpful.”

“It’s the least I could do,” you say honestly, standing still as a statue in front of him. The sincerity of his smile pricks at your conscience.

“Nonetheless, I appreciate it. At least I can always count on you to honour your commitments.”

You accept his gratitude with a tilt of your head. “Will you be taking them over now?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to,” he says, tapping the sheets together. “If I wait until tomorrow he’ll bury it under the paperwork for the colour run. Besides, he asked for it specifically.”

“I see. I hope you aren’t kept out too late.” You frown, consider placing a sympathetic hand on his arm and then decide to follow through. “You work too hard.”

His smile is wry. “Very kind of you to notice.” He tucks the sheets into a folder, then locks the whole thing under his arm as he escorts you to the door. You keep an easy pace with him.

“Should I set aside your dinner so you can have it when you return?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve been told Barbatos has already prepared a place for me.”

You pout. “Lucky you. I’m jealous.”

His grin shifts, an almost-laugh. “Well, you won’t have to traverse home after midnight, so—” He’s holding the door open for you, but you’re looking down, brow furrowed as you check your person.

“Sorry,” you say, patting at your pockets. “I dropped my D.D.D.”

Lucifer watches as you spin on your heel, already halfway out. He frowns. “Lord Diavolo said the matter was urgent. I can’t wait for you.”

“Does your door lock automatically when it closes? I’ll shut it as soon as I grab it, I promise.”

He gives you a quiet sigh, his back already to you. “Thank you. Please be quick.”

The second you hear his footsteps receding, you slow your harried pace. Instead you pick your way leisurely, nearly skipping to the imposing lacquered wood desk. You can half-remember the state of it - an unfinished Pollock. 

“Should you be in here alone?”

You turn at the voice, looking at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. He reaches a hand behind him and draws the door softly closed.

“I got your message,” he says, smile growing sharp at the edges. You can’t see his eyes, not really, not from this distance, but you haven’t forgotten the way they’d looked above you.

You lean back against the wood to meet his gaze, legs crossed demurely at the ankle.

“I thought you might want to get reacquainted.”

He places a hand to his chest, watching you with amusement. He's making a show of considering your offer, as though you both don't know the outcome. He's already here, after all. “You know, if we make too frequent a habit of this I don’t think the desk will survive.”

“Will it be difficult to replace?” you ask, not overly concerned.

“No, I’m sure Lord Diavolo is dying for an excuse to give Lucifer another gift.”

A pause. All the thoughts in your head simultaneously stutter to a halt.

“. . . This desk was a gift from _Diavolo_?!?”


End file.
